


Forgive Me (For I Have Sinned)

by leiascully



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Guilt, Penance - Freeform, Punishment, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 03:02:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor is desperate for absolution, and only River can hear his confession and dole out the appropriate punishment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgive Me (For I Have Sinned)

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: sometime in Series 7.2 (no spoilers)  
> A/N: For the "penance/punishment" square on my Kink Bingo card, because I'd already done spanking. I don't think it overtaxes the imagination to believe that River knows her way around a whip.  
> Disclaimer: _Doctor Who_ and all related characters are the property of Russell T. Davies, Stephen Moffat, and BBC. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

There are days, many days, when the weight of all the Doctor has done weighs him down. Those days he lets the TARDIS take him where she will. He sits in the library, brooding, gazing at the books without seeing them. For all of the good he has tried to do, his history is soaked in blood. He has saved billions of lives and caused the slaughter of millions of others, directly or not. 

There is no penance large enough to excuse his sins. His deeds will be marked forever. Like Lady Macbeth, he will never be able to wash the blood from his hands. Little wonder that the Silence hunt him. Little wonder that his enemies would put aside their differences to unite against him. Little wonder that he is buried in a battlefield, surrounded by the evidence of his guilt. Surrounded by those who trusted him, whom he failed at the last, and at the first, and at every moment since he began running. 

It is a bad day, one of a hundred thousand bad days, and he is sitting with his head in his hands. He cannot face the day. He cannot face the book, record of his crimes. He cannot face Clara's bright eyes and the wonder in her face. He cannot be the man he wants to be today; he is haunted by the man he is.

The door to the library opens and River strides in, magnificent in boots and jodhpurs with her hair flying around her face. His hearts leap at the sight of her, but even that can't get him out from under the shadow of his guilt. "Doctor?"

"Here," he says dully. 

"Why are you sitting in the dark?" she asks, turning on a light. "The TARDIS came for me. Is everything all right?"

"Maybe the things I haven't gotten around to interfering with," he says. "I've made a mess of the rest of the universe."

"Ah," she says. "That sort of sulk, is it?"

"You make it sound as if I haven't a reason to mourn," he snaps. "I've got millions. Billions, maybe."

She kneels by his chair. "Don't shout at me, sweetie. No one knows how you feel better than I do."

He looks into her eyes. "The Teselecta should have taken me, River. The greatest war criminal in history, it said. They should have taken me. They took you instead. It doesn't make sense."

She shrugs. "I killed the Doctor. The wise man. The healer. The saviour of billions. I killed the hope of a million worlds."

"And the executioner of a million more," he mutters.

She strokes his hair, surprisingly tender. "You've spared as many as you could. No one could ask for better."

"I'm sure some would be to differ," he says. 

She tilts her head and looks at him. "How do I help?"

"I'm not sure you can," he says. 

"Come now," she says, "that isn't the Doctor I know. Surely you have a clever plan."

He avoids her eyes. "You're an archaeologist."

"Or so I've convinced the university," she says. 

"You must have read the histories of a hundred worlds," he says.

"Thousands," she tells him. "I keep busy."

"And you don't judge them," he continues. "You don't sit above them as judge and jury. You thought Nixon was a decent chap, for pity's sake."

She frowns. "I try to stay unbiased."

"I've never told anyone the whole of it," he says. "Will you hear my crimes?"

"I'm an unlikely confessor," she tells him. "My history isn't much less chequered than yours, my love." 

"Please," he whispers, his mouth dry. 

"I'd rather give you twenty lashes and have done with it," she says. "If you need to suffer for your sins."

"I wish you would," he says miserably. 

"Truly?" she asks. "You want me to hurt you?"

"I've caused pain," he says fiercely. "It's only fair that I suffer."

"I can't say I didn't see this coming," she says, "but I imagined happier circumstances."

"River," he says, "I'm asking you."

She gazes at him for a long moment and then nods. "All right." She stands up. "I'll be back in a moment. Go and stand by one of the bookshelves. Make certain it's a sturdy one."

"Not the wall?" he asks. 

"You might need something to hold onto," she says. There's something unreadable in her eyes. She leans in and kisses his cheek. "Go and think about what you've done."

"I never stop," he tells her. When she's left, he pushes himself out of his chair and goes around the library, testing each bookshelf. There's a quite heavy one near the back wall. He centers himself in front of the end, wrapping his hands around the sides. It will do. He lays his forehead against the cool wood. He can hear the door open and River's footsteps as she crosses the room. When he looks up, she's carrying a whip with a long handle and a short lash. 

"Where on earth did you get that?" he asks, momentarily distracted from the burden of his grief.

"The wardrobe," she says, looking at it as if she isn't surprised at all. 

"I shouldn't ask, should I?" he mutters.

"Spoilers," she says with a wink, but her face is serious. "Sweetie, are you certain? Are you absolutely certain that this is what you want?"

"It's my turn," he says firmly. "I should feel some fraction of the pain that I've caused."

She nods slowly. "I can't say I don't understand the impulse. Tell me if you want me to stop."

"I won't want that," he tells her. 

She steps forward and puts her fingers under his chin, turning his face so that he's looking into her eyes. "You might," she says, her words clear and firm. "You've asked for this and I won't spare you. If you want me to stop, say 'Storm cage'." 

He nods. She's obviously taking this seriously, which he appreciates.

"Tell me yes," she says. "Tell me that you understand."

"I understand," he says. "If I want you to stop, I'll say 'Storm cage'." 

She looks slightly satisfied by that. "Take off your shirt."

He slips his braces off his shoulders and tugs at his bow tie until it comes undone. The shirt buttons go quickly even though his fingers are trembling a little. He drops the clothes in a heap by the bookshelf. 

"Take hold of the shelf," River directs him. "Hold on. What's your safe word?"

"Storm cage," he says, looking at the grain of the wood. 

"Good lad," she says. "Now. Do I need to tie you up?"

"I'll be still," he says stubbornly.

"Suit yourself," she says. He can hear her flicking the whip behind him. "All right, sweetie. Any time you'd like." He jumps as the lash touches his back, but she only strokes him with it, up and down his shoulderblades. 

"I caused the Time War," he says, bracing himself, trying not to shiver as the leather brushes his skin. "My entire planet, trapped in timelock. I good as murdered them, and the Daleks as well."

"The Daleks were trying to murder you," she points out. The tip of the whip tickles his neck and then slides off his shoulder. He can feel himself tensing up.

"It wasn't a proportional response," he snaps. "I hadn't the right."

She doesn't say anything, but a moment later the whip cracks and the lash bites into his back, above his ribs. He flinches a bit but doesn't move.

"Rose Tyler is trapped in another dimension," he says. "Probably for all eternity. And I left her there with nothing but a half-hearted copy. No hope. No future."

The lash snaps him again, on the other side this time. It stings like hell. He can feel the blood rushing to the place. He'll have a mark, certainly. 

"Martha Jones," he says, trying to keep his voice steady. "I wasn't kind to her. She gave up her whole life for me and I never thanked her for it. She deserved better and I brushed her off."

The impact of the lash feels almost good this time. River has a deft touch with the whip: he can feel that the welts are close together, but they don't overlap. Not yet.

"Donna Noble," he says. "I took her memories. She can't even think of me, did you know? She'll die. Her mind will basically implode. Even your parents won't die if I find a way to visit them, but Donna will."

Another smack, another sting. He grunts at the ache of it. He can tell now how light the first stroke was, and he can guess that they'll only get harder. He welcomes the challenge of it. His shoulders throb intermittently. He needs them to burn. He will never be rid of his sins until he has burned for them.

He talks about Jack and Amy and Rory. He talks about his lost daughter, Jenny, and his children and his grandchildren and the rest of his family, and about Sarah Jane and the Brigadier. He talks about every companion he's lost or left. He talks about every would-be companion he's failed. And all the while, River stays silent, and the whip speaks instead. His shoulders are aflame, but he will not use his word. He gasps, he groans, now and then he sobs, but he will not break. He will not fail his lost friends again. So he bears it, every lash. His shoulders are criss-crossed with searing lines of pain and the rest of his body is numb. 

He needs the pain. He needs his outsides to match his insides. He needs his body to feel the agony of his mind. He pours out the litany of his sins and River exacts her measure of payment from him. Only she could make an accurate assessment of how much he ought to suffer, he thinks. Only his wife could know the depth and breadth and height of his misdeeds. Only River could give him this release, this opportunity to do penance.  
He speaks of the Sycorax, the Cybermen, the Silence: every species who has come for him and been nearly wiped out of existence. And then there are the Ood and the Mutos and the Aplan and all the others he failed to save. For every wrong, the lash takes its toll, counting out the sentence for his crimes.

Finally he runs out of names. He knows that he has not made a complete count, but his memory is failing. His shoulders throb and screams with pain as he shifts. River runs the lash lightly down his unmarked spine and he lets out a low groan. 

"Thank you," he gasps, his forehead pressed to the bookshelf. His knees are shaking. He is sweating. Only the pain anchors him; the rest of his body is floating. "There's no one who could have done this but you."

"The bondage planet might have something else to say about that," she says, a trace of humor in her voice. 

"Nobody," he repeats. "No one else knows the pain I've caused. Nobody better than you."

He hears her step closer and then her fingertips are brushing the top of his bare shoulder, above the throbbing welts. Despite the pain, or perhaps because of it, his skin is incredibly, electrically sensitive, and he finds her touch unbearably erotic. He wants to turn his head and seek the heat of her mouth with his, but he stands still. His hands tremble where he clutches the shelf. She has given him relief and she must release him.

"Nobody knows the good you've done," she says quietly. "Nobody better than me. You saved me, Doctor. You and my parents."

"I didn't save you," he says, thinking of another Library, and his hearts ache more than his shoulders for a moment. "I hurt you more than the others."

"Yes," she says. "And no. Without the Doctor, there would be no River Song. There would only be Melody Pond."

"That was you," the Doctor says. "That was you all along, the humanity inside of you. That wasn't me."

"You gave me the opportunity to be that person," she says. "You showed me that I could be magnificent. Just like you did for all the others. We are incredible, but it takes your eyes to see it sometimes."

He turns his cheek against the bookshelf. "You were already magnificent," he tells her. "Every minute of your life, you have been magnificent."

She reaches out and traces the line of his eyebrow and cheek bone. "Oh, Doctor. How is it that you can be so right and so wrong? There could be a hundred million universes in which you kept Madame Kovarian from ever finding me and I would still want to live in this one. My childhood, my youth - I wouldn't change a minute of it, if it changed a minute of this. After all these years, you still forget that we _chose_ you. We ran into that big blue box at your heels and we did it with our eyes open. Don't tell us that choice wasn't worth something."

"None of you understood," he mumbles. "I lied by omission. I promised you the universe and I didn't tell you how dangerous it was."

"Would that have stopped Rose?" she asks. "It wouldn't have stopped my parents. I doubt it would have stopped any of them." She lays the back of her fingers softly against his cheek. "We needed you, Doctor, as much as you needed us."

"You are the best of me," he whispers. "My companions. My wife."

"And you find the greatness in us," she says. "You add to the universe's pile of good things. Now let go. I've got you." She slides her hand over his and gently uncurls his fingers from the bookshelf. He nearly falls into her arms, light-headed and weak-kneed. She slides an arm around his waist and he shudders. Not from pain this time - she only touched his shoulders with the lash - but because her skin against his is too much. His hearts are beating fast. He can feel himself stiffening. He stumbles along next to River, leaning against her. She's so much stronger than he ever remembers. She doesn't even struggle with the awkward weight of him. He suspects she could carry him if she felt the need. 

River leads and the Doctor goes along, hardly even noticing where they're going. River touches a door and guides him into a room. It's her room, he notices, full of this and that of hers. She helps him over to the bed. He sits numbly on the edge as she kneels to take off his boots. 

"Can I get you something for the pain?" she asks.

"No," he says so quickly he surprises himself. "No. I earned it. I'll endure it. I need it. I can't forget."

"Lie down," she tells him, and he obeys, curling up on his side. Her duvet is soft and cool against the hot stripes across his shoulders. River slides in next to him, gazing into his eyes. He looks back at her, lost in his own body. Despite the pain, he feels some measure of relief, but everything's in shreds right now, his thoughts torn apart by the flick of the lash. River gathers him up, her arm around his waist again, his head tucked under her chin. She fits her body to his and says nothing, and the Doctor floats along in her quiet embrace. 

The mingled scents of perfume and sweat rise from her skin and he breathes them in. River strokes the small of his back. Her touch raises a new sort of fire in him; his skin is exquisitely sensitive, each overstimulated nerve connected directly to his libido. Even the pain is a sort of pleasure. He would swear that he can feel every ridge and whorl on her fingertips as she caresses him. He shivers in her arms from the overload of it all. 

"The beacon," she murmurs. "Do you remember the beacon?"

"Our wedding," he mumbles. "Even then, I was cruel to you. I'm so sorry, River."

"I understood," River says. "I'm quite clever, you know."

The Doctor groans, half from the pain and half from the continuous soft touch of her fingers. "I should have trusted you."

"Yes," River says. "You ought to have done. But as I was ripping the universe to bits just so that I could prove my love, I think we were both in the wrong. But the beacon, sweetie. Billions of voices, raised in praise of you. Billions of promises made for the love of you. For every life you've ended, you've brought light to hundreds more. To millions more. The universe would be a worse place without you in it."

"Even for you?" he mumbles. His shoulders smoulder, but the pain is almost secondary to the lightning shocks of need through his veins. 

"I've been telling you," she says tenderly. "For me above all." Her voice is a caress.

He can't bear it any longer. He raises his head, blindly seeking her lips, and when her mouth finds his, the shock of it goes all through him. He moans and she answers. Her lips part, open and welcoming. Her tongue brushes his, teases, promises, and he kisses her hungrily. 

Her love for him is his absolution. River, out of everyone, ought to hate him, but here she is, his greatest helpmate, meeting his passion with her own. He clings to her, pulling her closer. Her body softens against him. Her curves shift to accommodate the planes of his body.

"Slowly," she whispers. "I know how you're feeling right now, my love. Take it slowly."

He makes an inarticulate noise of protest, but she holds him still. She kisses him until he's breathless, until he's yearning for her so much that he would swear that he could step out of his body if it would bring him closer to her. But it's only kissing, kissing and the slow sweep of her fingers over his back. It isn't enough. He wants to bury himself inside her. He wants her all around him, her body and her arms and her love and her sweet voice telling him that he is forgiven. He knows it isn't fair, making her a proxy for all the universe, but that doesn't change the longing. And still she only kisses him and traces the curve of his spine. 

"You don't want me," he says when she draws back. "After hearing all of that, why would you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, sweetie," she says warmly. "You're in a vulnerable state, that's all." She presses her cheek to his to breathe the words into his ear. "I want you badly, my love. If it were any other occasion, I would have had your clothes off as soon as I laid eyes on you. I want to wrap my arms around you and feel you deep inside me and I want to look into your eyes and I want you to know absolutely in every fiber of your being that you are loved and desired and cherished. But slowly. I doubt you've experienced this particular state of mind many times."

His shoulders and his cock both throb. "Ah," he says in a strangled voice.

"Believe me, it's a matter of considerable restraint on my part," she tells him, and only then does he realize how tense she is against him. Her fingers slide from his lower back to his hip. She traces the waistband of his trousers. He shudders with longing. 

"Sit up for a moment," she says. "You ought to have some water." She slides away from him and his body aches for hers, but he manages to sit up as she fetches a glass of water. 

"Sip," she commands, and he obeys. It does taste good. He takes tiny mouthfuls of it, letting the water wash through his mouth before he swallows. The coolness on his tongue and in his throat is a delicious counterpoint to the heat of his back. She watches him fondly, arms crossed. When he's drained the glass, she takes it from him and sets it on the nightstand. He watches as she sits on the edge of the bed. 

"How are you feeling, sweet?" she asks. "Still dizzy?"

He has to think about it. It's only her making his head spin now, though his body still feels a bit as if he's floating. "No," he says finally.

"Good," she says, rewarding him with a smile. "How's the back?"

He shifts his shoulders gingerly. "Extremely painful."

She glances at him, her fingers touching the nape of his neck and tracing down to the top edges of his welts. "You'll be all right."

"I trusted you," he says simply. "I'm still trusting you."

"A precious gift indeed," she says, her voice soft.

"The least I can give you," he tells her. "You deserve better."

She strokes his face and he reaches forward and tangles his hands in her hair, coaxing her toward him. She slides forward and kisses him, her mouth opening to his immediately. Her tongue flickers against his, igniting his hunger all over again. He could kiss her forever. He could kiss her until the stars flared and died and cooled around them. He could kiss her until the universe was reborn. He kisses her in short little bursts, too overwhelmed by the heat and softness of her to sustain the embrace, and she answers him with equal eagerness. He is aware that both of them are moaning, some sort of shorthand for the inexpressible glory of their love. He thinks they could cause the end of the universe at this rate: their passion could ignite a supernova. And still he can't get enough of her. His mouth demands more and more and she gives him everything and asks in return.

His hands are at her waist, rucking up her shirt, and she's undoing the button of his trousers. He tries to help her shirt over her head, but he can't lift his arms without wincing and gasping. She kisses him swiftly and strips it off, then stands to shed the rest of her clothes. She tugs at his waistband until he stands. Swiftly she divests him of them, tossing all of their clothes into a corner. He stands naked before her, too aroused to even be embarrassed. River unclothed is perfection, pure artistry in human form, and his eyes drink her in. She steps closer, fitting her body against him, and he sighs in relief. The floaty feeling increases again as her skin meets his and it is nearly the greatest bliss he's ever known. 

"Still what you want, sweetie?" she murmurs, her hands easing up his chest to cup his face.

"Always," he swears. "Always and completely."

"Well then," she says. "Come a little closer." She wraps her arms around him and pulls him along with her as she climbs onto the bed, still kissing him. Even through the haze of his desire he notices how careful she is with him, how she never touches his shoulders. She eases down onto her back and he follows. For a moment, he tries to brace himself over her, but his back won't bear it. She tugs him down until he's lying on her, his arm crooked under her shoulders and his hips canted across hers. The shape of her under him centers him. He feels like he's fully in the room for the first time since River stroked his shoulders with the whip. She shifts under him, wriggling into the pillows, and he tries to lift some of his weight off her. His arms tremble and he rests against her again. 

"Too much?" he asks, panting.

"Never," she swears with a luminous smile. "I'll never have enough of you for my liking."

"I can offer you a little more for now," he says, stroking her thigh with one hand.

She chuckles. "There you are, sweetie. Welcome back. Feeling yourself again?"

"Better than myself," he tells her. "River?"

"Hmm?" she says, her eyes a little glazed as his fingers caress ever higher up her thigh. He eases his fingers between her folds. The marrow of his bones goes molten at the feel of her. She is gloriously wet, and he wonders for a moment if she liked punishing, if she would consider doing it again another time when things are less emotionally fraught. It's hard to concentrate on what he was going to say, but he remembers.

"Forgive me?"

"Not unless you kiss me right now," she tells him, and then her mouth is against his. She kisses his as if he's the thing she wants most in all of time and space, and he melts into her. Almost without realizing it, he lets her guide his hips to rest on hers. Her leg wraps over his as she guides him where she wants him, and he groans at the slick pressure of her. He thrusts into her as slowly as he can bear, melting inch by inch into the perfect heat of her. She moans appreciatively, pulling his lower lip into her mouth, and they stay like that for a moment, savoring the sensation. He moves in her, hampered a little by the contact of their bodies. With both arms wrapped around her and their bodies stacked, he hasn't got much leverage, but she spreads her legs and arches her back and it works somehow. Her hips grind hard against his. 

"And now?" he gasps. "Forgive me?"

"Always and completely," she promises. "But slowly, sweetie."

It is unbearable to go slowly, but equally unbearable to think that it might not last as long as possible. He can hold himself up a little with his thighs, making it easier to thrust, but the yielding surface of the bed means that his legs are trembling with exertion sooner rather than later. Sweat prickles on his skin and stings like hell in the welts on his shoulders. The pain and fatigue are swept up in the rest of the sensations, adding dimension to his pleasure. He slides partway out of her, coaxing her half onto her side. Resting on his elbow hurts his shoulders, but less than before.

"I can't hold myself up," he tells her.

"It's all right," she says, and kisses him fiercely. Her leg locks over his backside and she pulls him back down on top of her. Her hips rise under him, so strongly that he has to bear down to keep from slipping. It isn't slow, but it is delicious. He slips a hand between them, splaying his fingers over her pelvis so that his thumb can reach her clit as she rocks relentlessly up and up. One moment he is so deep in her that he forgets his own name and the next gasping at the shock of cool air washing past his cock, and then it begins again and again and again until his body is shaking. 

He is close, too close, and he won't let himself come before she does. He kisses her, his thumb rubbing circles until her moans are nearly screams. He manages to brace himself on his elbow long enough to free his other hand to caress her breasts. His range of motion is limited, but he finds a nipple and rolls it gently between his fingers as he strokes her and she surges up to take him in. 

She is all around him, so encompassing that he thinks she is part of his soul. His shoulders ache under the strain of his own weight, but he won't give up until his wife is satisfied. He times his strokes according to the pitch of her moans, faster and faster as she nears that breathy yelp he loves so well, and suddenly her body is tensing under his, and he feels her climax roll through her like a wave. She shouts out her pleasure, her arms tightening around him. 

"Now," she gasps, and damn his shoulders and the pain in his thighs, he holds himself up so that he can thrust as hard and fast and deep as he's wanted to since she put down the whip. It takes all the time there is and no time at all for the pleasure to build to its final crescendo, slamming through him until his whole body sears with it. He collapses onto his side, gulping for air, his skin slick with sweat. River pulls him close, murmuring to him, stroking his hair and his face. He laughs, not knowing why, and buries his face in her neck, overcome and undone and wrung out and aching all over, but happy.

He is safe in her arms. He is forgiven in her arms. He is beloved in her arms. For tonight, that is enough.


End file.
